


Revenge is a dish best served on the rocks

by Takene_ne



Series: unlikely encounters of Mickey G. [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Cole is a good friend, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Married Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Post-Canon, Shameless typical language, Yes that one - Freeform, even if a tad dramatic, flower shop, it's his charm tho DEAL WITH IT, scheming and evil plots but it's mostly just cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24248335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Takene_ne/pseuds/Takene_ne
Summary: “Yes. Hi. I would like to order a bouquet of stargazer lilies.”OR: Cole does some meddling.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Mickey Milkovich & Cole
Series: unlikely encounters of Mickey G. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737580
Comments: 27
Kudos: 173





	Revenge is a dish best served on the rocks

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own shameless :v  
> Also!  
> If you haven’t already read my super fun _5+1 Mickey meets Ian’s exes_ fic and for some reason don’t want to (G A S P), all you need to know is that sometime after the wedding Mickey and Cole met at the Alibi and immediately hit it off. And now they’re besties :D

_“Yes. Hi. I would like to order a bouquet of stargazer lilies.”_

Mickey stares in disbelief at Cole, happily scribbling notes on his flower order, unable to process what exactly is it that he’s seeing right now. Because he’s sure as hell it ain’t reality.

At least not one he’s willing to accept just like that.

They’re seated in the shabby Gallagher kitchen, with its mismatched chairs, its dim lights and scratched, well used old table. The beer is getting warm in Mickey’s hand, or at least what he _assumes_ is beer, because you never know with whatever “organic” bullshit Cole dragged along, refusing to touch the good ol’ South Side off-brand bottled piss they all are used to around here.

The fancy _maybe_ beer fits into the house as well as it fits into Mickey’s tastes, but so does Cole.

It’s not the first time he came barreling through their door with lacy shirts and sparkly makeup, looking as much out of place as any decent tentacly alien would, but it’s _not the first_ time and Mickey’s kinda used to his odd presence by now. It doesn’t happen often that Cole pays them a visit, _thank God_ , usually preferring to hit the town, heedless of Mickey’s displeased grumbling. Which at this point he continues to bother with mostly on principle — it’s not like Cole has any real means of hauling Mickey anywhere against his will, after all.

The ceiling light blinks a couple of times when someone — probably Liam — runs through the corridor on the upper floor and Mickey blinks, too.

_“Do you have any blue ones? Beyond Blue? Oh, fabulous!”_

Yes. This must be a fever dream.

Cole’s smile looks nothing short of predatory when he taps his pen on the tabletop, almost visibly sparking with smugness and Mickey’s used to that, he really is, but sometimes, in moments like this, he wonders if such a flair for dramatics can be contagious.

_“When can I pick it up? No, next week. Friday? Perfect.”_

Mickey sighs and rubs his eves, long-suffering. It’s all Ian’s fault, anyway.

It was him that let it slip around Cole — _Cole_ of all people — what a disaster their first attempt in acquiring flowers for the wedding was. And it’s not like Mickey necessarily _planned_ on getting back at the old, homophobic bitch from the flower shop, or even going back there, ever, for that matter, but the second his stupid, absolute moron of a husband opened his big mouth to blabber about bigots and wedding meltdowns and _not doing business with the gays_ , it was _ON_.

And now it was happening.

Cole might be chill incarnate, but he is also very _don’t take no shit_ kinda person, so Mickey has no qualms about being a tad bit nervous about the whole thing.

“Yo, Tinkerbell,” Mickey says when Cole finally hangs up the phone, pushing away from his seat by the counter to get himself another beer. He is way too sober for this stupid shit. “The fuck you need that bouquet for?”

Cole doesn’t dignify him with an answer; he rolls his eyes like Mickey’s stupid for even asking and takes a slurp of his beer. Mickey spitefully hopes it’s lost all the bubbles by now and the fucker is drinking expensive warm piss.

“You know the old bag probably don’t even remember us, right?” he tries again because Cole might think the issue’s settled, but Mickey sure as hell isn’t done.

“Relax, bitch. I have everything under control.”

That Mickey doesn’t doubt. It’s just that Cole’s using his special _I’m innocent!_ drawl on him and Mickey knows better than to trust it by now. In fact, he’s way more comfortable being the one that fuels it instead of the one being scammed. Because that _someone_ is gonna get scammed there is no doubt.

Fucking troublesome.

* * *

Friday comes faster than Mickey could ever expect, but it’s kinda hard to dawdle on days when life for once is really good. Before he knows it, he’s walking home from his last shift before the weekend, tired, but pleasantly so, and relieved to have some free fucking time ahead. He doesn’t mind dealing with idiots on the regular, but there is only so much patience he can spare before the need to punch someone becomes overwhelming, and there is nothing more relaxing than a long Friday afternoon spent fucking his hot husband.

Mickey doesn’t actually remember it’s supposed to be _THE_ Friday until he sees Cole, perched at the top of the wonky front stairs to the Gallagher house like a very sparkly, very judgmental crow on a mission.

_Fuck._

“Bitch, finally! You were supposed to be here like fifteen minutes ago!”

“Yeah, no. You’re just impatient, Cinderella.”

Well alright. Maybe Mickey _did_ take a bit of a scenic route through the convenience store on his way home, but it’s not like he’s just gonna admit that. They were running low on lube; Mickey had fucking plans for the evening.

“Whatever, bitch. Hurry up and let me in,” Cole nags, already jumping to his feet, patting the dust away from a big bag of… _something_ , that he’s carried along.

Mickey sighs. He knew there was no way out of this the moment he spotted his friend waiting on the porch, but it’s always nice to drag the inevitable away just a little.

“You know door’s probably open, right?” he surrenders to his fate and opens the damn thing. Cole only grins and follows him inside.

* * *

They go to the kitchen first because Mickey desperately needs a beer to deal with whatever’s about to come. He’s still not in the clear about the whole flower revenge bullshit but he suspects Ian’s in on this, too, at least in some way. Mickey distinctly remembers the hushed, rushed conversation his husband and best friend had the last time Cole came by the Alibi, that involved rather unhealthy amounts of smothered evil cackling and playfully nudging elbows. At the time Mickey felt above their undoubtedly ridiculous schemes, but now, when the push came to shove he wishes he tried eavesdropping on them a little bit more carefully.

“What are you really doin’ here, Regina?” Mickey asks, when the first big gulp of beer washes down his throat. “Thought you were picking up your flowers today.”

Cole levels him with a very unimpressed expression and alright. Mickey knows he technically gave blanket permission for basically everything the moment he uttered his first _‘fuck ever’_ when the idea was dropped, but that _does not_ mean he’s gonna be passive about it. Hell no.

“Oh, don’t be silly, man. Gotta get you all dolled-up first.”

Okay, well. Mickey wasn’t really expecting that. He looks at Cole from beneath his furrowed brows but the little bitch seems completely unperturbed by his attitude, as per usual, really. Honestly, that’s the basis of their friendship in one, fucked up frame: Mickey gets agitated, Cole ignores the shit out of it and continues on his bullshit anyway. And drags Mickey along. Fucking fairies. And Mickey, let him be damned, goes without much protest, because at the end of the day, he fucking enjoys being a fairy as well.

“The fuck for?” he asks, incredulous but more than a little amused at Cole’s wording, and finishes his beer in one more go. Cole doesn’t really wait for him to trash the bottle, though, just steps closer into his space with a sparkly caricature of a mischievous smirk plastered on his face.

“That,” Cole says coyly, sliding one of his well-manicured fingers over the curve of Mickey’s jaw, “is for me to know and for you to enjoy.”

And with that he heads upstairs.

Cocky motherfucker.

* * *

Mickey literally _cannot fucking believe_ this shit.

He’s seated on his shitty bed in his shitty bedroom with his shitty sliding door fucking _blocked shut,_ clad only in boxer shorts and socks as Cole digs through his magic bag of misery for, _ah_ , supplies.

Well.

It’s not like Mickey’s actually _opposed_ to the idea of dressing up in some fancy-ass bullshit and going out — pulling their wedding together basically by himself and then subsequently hanging out with Cole, who fucking _breathes_ fashion, in a profusely excessive amount awakened that mostly hidden spark of fabulous Mickey was rather hard-pressed to admit he had all along, and so letting it loose from time to time is something he’s absolutely game for. Usually. It’s the still highly suspicious flower scheme that bugs him, though, and what looks like a colossal bottle of glitter that Cole just fished out with an appreciative nod.

Mickey may be many things, but _glitter boy_ is definitely not one of them.

“Gonna tell me what you’re going here for, Elle Woods? I don’t have all day, you know,” Mickey asks impatiently, trying to assess how much trouble exactly he’s in. By the looks of it so far: _a lot._

“Yes, you do. And hush now, I’m trying to focus.” Cole doesn’t even look at him, holding the cursed glitter bottle up to the light and patting the corner of his glistening mouth with one finger like he’s some kind of nuclear physicist about to have a breakthrough. Mickey doesn’t like that look one bit.

“Ain’t puttin’ any of that shit on _my_ face,” he threatens halfheartedly when the bottle lands on what Mickey suspects must be a _‘to use’_ pile, complete with a variety of ties, a somewhat whimsical blue boutonnière clip and a bottle of expensive cologne.

“It’s not for you.” Cole waves a dismissive hand in Mickey’s face and with one last good shake to his bag of horrors finally turns to face Mickey “What are you waiting for, bitch? Go take a shower, I need to do your hair.”

“Like fuck you do,” mumbling under his breath Mickey eyes suspiciously the offending bottle but eventually decides that a shower is not that bad of an idea right now, as the bathroom _is_ a land blissfully free of glitter-wielding tormentors, so admitting silent defeat, Mickey heads out.

* * *

Getting his hair done by somebody else is not something he could ever get used to, and honestly, Mickey would rather not repeat the experience. It’s not even the fact that Cole’s using on him products Mickey’s never even heard of before — because really, what in the everloving fuck is a _hair clay?_ — it’s just that it doesn’t exactly _feel_ right.

Usually, Mickey’s not even close to being as pissy about the state of his hair as his surprisingly vain husband, that tortures his scalp daily in order to beat his fiery mess of a head into his preferred sleek perfection, and he’s sure as hell _light years_ _away_ from whatever Cole’s obsession with his looks is. It doesn’t mean Mickey doesn’t like to look nice. On the contrary, actually — over the years, when styling his hair became a comfortable habit, Mickey got accustomed to arranging it in certain ways that were both stylish and not annoying.

Cole using hair dryers and weird round brushes on him is definitely annoying, but he _does_ look kinda hot.

It’s a miracle that the house seems to be conspicuously empty, because Mickey’s not sure he would’ve survived the endless taunting without resorting to violence if any of the Gallaghers saw him perched on a toilet seat like and overgrown, angry make-up doll, even if they are somewhat accustomed to his odd friend by now.

When his hair is finally done and still amazingly devoid of any glitter — thank _fuck_ — Mickey’s sure it’s time for dress-up.

His collection of semi-decent formalwear has grown significantly since the wedding hassle proved he actually likes that sort of thing, but even on the rare occasions he and Ian would go on actual, real dates with utensils and fancy napkins and shit, Mickey never really goes over the top. They’re South Side. Terry might’ve chilled on his murderous post-wedding rage, but there’s no reason to give him more fuel were they to stumble upon his ugly mug.

Well.

What awaits for him when Mickey re-enters his bedroom very much _is_ over the top.

And fuck if he doesn’t love it.

* * *

The shop is just as shabby as Mickey remembers, with its run-down front and turn over display obscuring the view of the inside.

He’s not entirely sure he’s happy to be back here again, but can’t help the little surge of excitement bubbling in his chest at whatever the evening may bring. Mickey might’ve left his family name behind, but he’s still a Milkovich born and raised. And Milkoviches always collect their due.

Mickey takes a deep breath as they reach the door and looks sideways at Cole. He can see the exact moment his usual easy smile transforms into a truly wicked thing and Mickey lets himself relax.

_Showtime._

* * *

The rusty bell chimes weakly as Cole saunters in with Mickey hot on his heels, and marches straight for the desk. They didn't discuss what exactly they were going to do once inside, with Cole instating the whole way over for Mickey to just _‘play along and leave it to me, bitch’_.

Well. Mickey usually does. Play along, that is.

And he can’t even deny that spontaneous havoc is what they do best. So of course Mickey’s gonna roll with it, regardless of what _it_ actually is. He can already feel they’re gonna have fun, though.

The wrinkly old hag behind the counter looks mildly interested as they approach and it’s not even close to that pure disgust that twisted her features the last time Mickey was here. Well, with Cole uncharacteristically down on make-up and actually suit up for once, they must look more like some business class assholes instead of a couple of fags on a stroll.

It will change very soon, Mickey’s sure of that.

Cole doesn’t waste any time in getting to business. He leans over the front desk bending low on his elbows like he’s trying to breathe the which in, crooked smile firmly in place, perfectly polite and polished; Mickey would’ve knocked his teeth out if he ever looked at him like that.

“I’m here to pick up my order,” he says in a nauseatingly sweet voice, drumming his fingers on the countertop. “For Mr. Gallagher.”

Mickey watches from his spot in the corner as grandma’s bleary eyes spark with recognition and a little smile of her own softens her features.

“Of course. Just a second,” she says, already turning to walk to the back. Cole winks at him and Mickey can’t help but snort.

After less than a minute the hag returns with a truly gorgeous, abundant bouquet of blue lilies in hand, and even though Mickey still hates her, he has to admit grandma has some _skills_. The bouquet looks almost like a singular, seamless blossom, void of any cheap plastic ribbons and unnecessary weed to spoil its beauty and it’s absolutely _stunning_.

And, _oh_ _GOD_ _,_ can Mickey _smell_ it.

Even from a few feet away the sweet, rich scent of the flowers hits him like a wave of divine pleasure, equal parts sinful and alluring. Mickey lets himself take a deep breath, lets the scent seep through his lungs and fill up his bones, engulf him like a blanket of the sweetest high. And he smiles.

Cole smiles too, with a little less edge that he started with and infernal grandma seems to be satisfied with their reaction. She hands the flowers to Cole, looking pleased in a very aggravating way and Mickey suddenly cannot wait to see what Cole has planned to pull over her.

“Do you want a card to go with these beauties, too?” she asks politely, but already reaching for a stash of plain white squares lying in a neat pile on the desk. Cole nods, straightening his back, and tells grandma to write _‘for the love of my life’_. Mickey briefly muses if you could get any more cheesy than that. Probably not by much.

The old bitch nods appreciatively when she sticks the finished card into the bouquet, neat cursive stark across the paper, and Mickey wonders if it’s finally time for nosy questions, because no way it could’ve been just so easy.

He isn’t wrong.

As the woman punches their order into her ancient register, she looks straight at the bouquet in Cole’s arms and asks:

“Who’s the lucky lady?”

And she’s smiling, still, in a way that makes Mickey’s stomach turn so he opens his mouth to call her out and set her straight, but Cole’s faster. He waves a hand in front of his face in that annoyingly coy manner of his and huffs a little incredulous laugh.

“Oh, no, no. See my friend over there?“ He bends forward like he’s about to tell her a secret and wavers the flowers in Mickey’s general direction, like it wasn’t already glaringly obvious that they walked in here together. “He’s got a fancy diner date with his husband in about an hour. Couldn’t send him out without proper verdure, am I right?”

Mickey doesn’t know anything about a date but there must’ve been a reason why Cole stuffed him in a suit, so fair enough.

The flower hag instantly pales, taking a half-step back from where Cole is still looming over her.

“Are you ho _… homosexuals_ …?” she stammers weakly and Mickey has a very vivid sense of déjà vu.

“What do you think, bitch?” he snarks, grinning widely and watching with mild interest as Cole digs through his messenger bag and pulls out that cursed glitter container. Mickey wasn’t even aware he brought it with, but now he’s really fucking curious as to _why._

Well.

Cole seems entirely unperturbed by the old lady behind the counter clutching at her heart with desperation more than anything else, too focused on playing with his sparkly bottle. Bigoted grandma seems to have lost her voice, focused on his actions and seemingly one step away from a heart attack, and Mickey watches him, too. Cole uncorks his bottle and tweaks something in the cap and then, _and then,_ he’s fucking _spritzing_ the flowers with what looks like a fine silver mist, adding a little otherworldly gleam to the already stunning bouquet.

Mickey’s in awe. It’s such a passively-aggressive dick move he feels like he’s gonna lose it any second now. That _smooth_ motherfucker.

“We don’t do business with your kind. Please leave,” the old hag says shakily, mesmerized by Cole’s actions. Her green-pale skin and half-horror, half-disgust expression is a work of art.

“It’s a little late for that, doncha think, grandma?” Mickey laughs and she looks at him with pure contempt. He doesn’t care one bit. Getting played into serving gays is her own fault for being a homophobic scumbag.

Cole seems to share his opinion on the matter, because with one last dramatic spritz on the flowers, he points the bottle at the florist bitch and generously sprays glitter on her hair and face. And clicks his tongue, like he just solved world’s fucking hunger. He didn’t, but Mickey’s still impressed.

“That means we’re keeping the flowers free of charge, right? You’re the best,” Cole chirps mischievously, taking advantage of the bitch being frozen in her spot and just… Twirls theatrically on his heel and _walks out._

Mickey kinda wishes he had a camera on hand to capture this moment of total obliteration so he could show Ian later. He’s sure his husband would get a decent kick out of it — because really, who wouldn’t?

He doesn’t, though, so Mickey does the next best thing he can think of and twists the knife.

“Pleasure _not_ doing business with you!” he says in his best cheerful voice, fingers curled in a mock salute, and gets the fuck out of there to join Cole on the sidewalk.

The moment he’s out, Mickey bursts out laughing, almost bending in half. He knows he’s wrinkling his crispy shirt and probably ruining his perfectly styled hair with how much he’s shaking but he doesn’t care. They just did something awesome — Mickey has the right to live it up a little!

He doesn’t really notice Cole laughing with him until they’re both collapsed on the curb, last unshed tears of joy drying from their eyes.

“So what now, man? Wanna hit the bar?” It’s not their usual weekend to hang out, but fuck it, they’re already out and about. Might as well. Mickey really needs a drink right now, so why not celebrate, right?

Cole seems to be back to his usual cocky self, though, as he only gives Mickey _The Eyebrow_ and unceremoniously shoves the flowers into his lap.

“Ian’s waiting, bitch. I put the deets on the card.”

 _How_ can Ian be waiting for him, Mickey has no idea. He was supposed to work double today which means it’s still at least a few hours too early for him to even be home, but Mickey’s not gonna question it. Not after what just happened. So he only grins at Cole in silent acknowledgement when they get up and waves at him comically when he disappears behind the corner.

What a day.

Mickey shakes his head, endlessly amused, and starts walking the opposite direction. He has a date to catch, after all.

Next time they go out, though, Mickey will make sure Cole’s stupid fruity beer is on him.

* * *

Later, much, much later, when he cuddles with Ian on their bed, both of them giddy and spent and sated, Mickey looks at the ruffled bouquet standing proudly at their bedside table and thinks he wouldn’t mind repeating this evening at all. All craziness included.

He falls asleep to the sweet scent of flowers filling the room and an arm of the man he loves pulling him close and Mickey feels happy. Truly, unreservedly happy.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Be smart, kids! Don’t keep lilies by your bed!**  
>  Also, I don’t know what the fuck this is but I hope you had fun. Cuz I sure did :v
> 
> [come say hi on tumblr!](https://takenene.tumblr.com/)


End file.
